Envy Read online

  ‘High five.’

  ‘High five.’

  Our fingers touch and make static electricity.

  Mouse starts the car engine. We set off towards Weybridge. My stomach is quivering with excitement. A cottage instead of my damp flat. I can’t believe my luck. I’ve never had luck before. There must be some catch. I look across at Mouse, frowning as he drives, staring intently at the road ahead. To Mouse, driving is the biggest responsibility in the world. The biggest responsibility that he ever has. He takes it very seriously.

  I sit looking out of the car window at all the other cars, each one a time capsule, containing a family, a relationship, an individual on the road to somewhere. After so long incarcerated, it seems surreal to be watching people moving freely, able to go wherever they want. The electronic buzzing of doors closing behind me will haunt me for ever. These people I am watching are going wherever they want, but I have to go in the opposite direction thanks to Faye and Phillip, when I was only trying to help.

  Mouse pulls into Weybridge. It looks like a very posh town. Large houses set back from the road. Wide leafy streets. A green. A war memorial. A long high street.

  ‘It looks all right, doesn’t it, Erica?’

  ‘Yes, Mouse.’

  The strident tones of Mouse’s satnav tell us where to go, and soon we are parked outside my new home. My heart catches as we step into the living room of the most perfect little cottage I have ever seen. A cosy floral sofa and two chairs facing the fireplace with a large flat-screen TV above it. An Indian rug. A wood burner. Oak beams. Mouse and his dad have moved all my possessions here. The photograph of Mouse and me, on our day trip to the seaside last year, laughing and leaning towards the camera. My teapot. My pack of cards.

  ‘It’s fantastic, Mouse. I’ll have to thank your dad. And I’m going to get a job and pay back every penny.’

  ‘I know. He knows. We believe in you, Erica.’

  My eyes fill with tears and I step towards Mouse and hug him. He hugs me back. ‘It’s almost perfect. I just wish I was nearer to you.’

  I swallow to stop my tears from falling.

  ‘But, Erica,’ Mouse says putting his arm around me. ‘It’s not far on the train. I promise I’ll come and see you every single week.’

  157

  Faye

  I’ve dropped Tamsin at school and Georgia at nursery whilst panicking inside. Erica has been released from prison and even though she is subject to a restraining order it doesn’t appease me. She could be anywhere. As far as I am concerned she deserves to be locked up for ever.

  And ever since I knew she was released, yesterday morning, my heart has been racing, my hands trembling. My joints pulsate with a strange electricity that at the same time as pumping me up makes me feel tired. Sudden noises frighten me. People standing too close to me. People talking too loudly in crowded spaces.

  I’m walking to see Mimi but I feel so frightened and strange. I stop to pop a Valium. I have a few in my jacket pocket that Phillip gave me. He has become a whizz kid at buying stuff from the internet. I’m still taking St John’s Wort but I think it’s the Valium that is keeping me calm. I swig it down with a sip from the small water bottle in my handbag, and carry on walking towards Serendipity Model Agency. I am skipping my exercise class this morning. My heart rate is in overdrive – I mustn’t stimulate it even more.

  Past McDonald’s, Costa Coffee, NatWest Bank. Still too early for frying; no fish and chips yet today. I climb the stairs to go and see Mimi.

  Her hair is growing out. It is black. Too black to be natural, like a goth’s. What is the matter with her? Over forty years old. Will her rebellious stage ever end? Not if you judge by the number of piercings. I think she has an extra one in her nose. A dumbbell in each nostril as well as the safety pin now. Surely that must be tricky when she has a cold?

  ‘Faye, sit down. We need to talk,’ she says, waving her arms in the air, gesticulating towards the chair opposite her desk. She has a silver ring on every finger, as well as her thumb rings that look so strange and clumsy. Six thin silver bangles on each arm. Today she is wearing a floral skirt instead of ripped jeans. She looks like a modern gypsy.

  I sit down.

  ‘You’re needed for two new jobs.’

  My stomach rotates.

  ‘Hands and legs,’ Mimi snaps.

  Hands and legs. Disappointment skitters.

  ‘Don’t look like that. One is for the local nail bar.’

  I growl inside. The local nail bar. Hardly high-profile.

  She smiles a mischievous smile. ‘The other is Dior tights. They love your legs.’

  ‘Dior tights? Pity it isn’t Dior make-up. Pity they don’t want my face.’

  Mimi leans into the fridge behind her and pulls out a bottle of champagne, and two glasses from the shelf behind her.

  ‘Fucking Dior, darling,’ she says. ‘They pay well. Don’t complain.’

  158

  Phillip

  Faye, who is frightening you most? Is it Erica? Is it Jonah? I would have to toss a coin to guess. I don’t suppose I will ever know. But Jonah is my nemesis. The one I would like to eliminate. I have been watching him. Watching his house. I am standing outside it right now. A statement house. The sort of house that likes to tell you how much it is worth. With the shape of its floor to ceiling Georgian windows, luxurious material peeping around their edges. The shiny front door. The highly polished brass door knocker. Understated elegance that everyone knows is expensive. And he only has it because his family suddenly inherited money from a Swiss trust account; held on to since the Second World War. He hasn’t earnt enough money designing extensions to live in a place like this. Dirty money of some sort if you ask me.

  Tuesday night. He always goes out for two hours from 8 p.m. until 10 p.m. on Tuesday nights. I don’t know why. He goes to a Victorian house a few roads away. Maybe he goes to play bridge or something suitable for an uptight fart like him.

  I have everything I need. Brick. Rubber gloves. Bleach. Rubber slips for my shoes. A bag for my booty. I walk up the Portland stone path past the front door, and enter the back garden from the side gate. It unfolds before me. South-facing. Perfectly landscaped. Even the plants in it must be worth a fortune, never mind the bronze sculpture of a nude woman, the stone pots and the basket-weave furniture. What an idiot to keep the side gate unlocked.

  Standing by a tumbling Acer plant, which is just coming into leaf, I pull the plastic slips I have brought with me over my shoes, and the gloves over my hands. I take the brick from my bag and brace myself. Quickly. Quickly. I smash it through the side kitchen window. Then I hide behind the lilac tree, to wait and check that no one has heard. That no helpful neighbour will come to investigate when they hear an alarm. No alarm. I look at my watch. I give it five minutes. No one comes. Sometimes the privilege of privacy has its disadvantages, doesn’t it, Jonah?

  I step across the springy lawn, and climb through the broken window, slowly, carefully, to make sure I don’t cut myself, landing on the granite kitchen counter and jumping down onto thousands of pounds’ worth of travertine. The sort of stone I wish I could afford at home. Why do some bastards have all the luck financially?

  Jonah’s kitchen is sterile and perfect. No dishes left on the side. No crumbs on the counter. No childish fridge magnets or hastily scribbled notes for a partner to find. I grab the toaster and slip it into my bag. And the small TV at the end of the kitchen counter. That’s it. That’s enough to make it look like a petty crime.

  Now for the main business. I open the cupboard next to his shiny designer kettle. He is so anal. Boxes of tea in straight lines. Alphabetically arranged. Jonah this is a kitchen, not a library. And the Gold Blend in a jar at the front. That figures. He likes his Gold Blend. That is what he always drinks when he is at ours. I pluck the jar of Gold Blend from the cupboard and open it. I take the vial from my pocket and pour its contents into the coffee. My secret concoction. Powder ordered specially for Jonah from the da
rk net and the perfect amount of darkened sugar to disguise its bitter taste. I stir it together with the plastic straw I brought with me. Slowly, carefully, I put the lid back on the jar, and place it back in the cupboard at exactly the angle I found it. Jonah Mathews, a gift for you. Drink it as often as you like.

  I look at my watch. Eight-thirty. An hour and a half before he is home. I am going to look around his house, to see whether there are any clues as to what he’s been up to lately. I step from the kitchen into his dining area with its crystal chandelier and white marble fireplace, when I hear the front door opening.

  He must have forgotten something, and come back home. I race back into the kitchen, pick up my bag. Heart pounding, I scramble up onto the counter, slide through the broken window, and run as fast as I can to hide behind the lilac tree again. I peer around it to see what is happening.

  Jonah is there. Standing in the middle of the kitchen. Looking at the broken window. Frowning. Mobile phone pressed to his ear. He must be phoning the police. I am lucky I have got this far. But I need to disappear immediately. My body and mind vibrate with panic. If I go around the front he will see me. I am stuck in a six-foot-high walled garden where a maniac who used to be a friend lives, and the maniac has called the police.

  I look around. A garden shed by the back wall. I sigh with relief. Bag slung across my body, I slip towards it, hiding behind trees and bushes. The garden shed is behind a big tree. It cannot be seen from the house. I throw my heavy bag on top of it, pull my shoe slips off, put them in my pocket and edging my hands and feet around the wooden slats of the shed, manage to climb onto its roof. I roll across the roof, grab my bag and then swing my body over the wall, landing heavily on the pavement at the back of the house. As soon as I land I whip off my plastic gloves.

  Heart still pounding in overdrive, I walk away. Trying to look as calm as possible as I listen to police sirens wailing in the distance. I turn left at the end of the road behind his house. Left again and end up back on the main road. There is a skip on the corner. I throw my bag in there. And slowly, calmly, walk home.

  159

  Faye

  The loft extension is finished. Phillip and I are celebrating over a bottle of Pol Roger. We are sitting on the bed in our new guest room, sipping from wedding-present crystal, trying to admire our own good taste. Dorma bedding. Hand-made pottery bedside lamps. State-of-the-art wet room. Automatic halogens.

  The children are in bed. That is when our life together begins these days. We clink glasses. Now we have a proper family home, big enough for guests to stay whenever we like. But at what cost? Jonah using it as an excuse to try and see me whenever he wanted. Thank God it’s finished. Now he will never have an excuse to come into our home again. I am trembling just thinking about him.

  ‘I’m so pleased with your news from Mimi,’ Phillip says.

  Phillip. Wide reassuring shoulders. Wide reassuring face. The man I always wanted to meet. The man I do not want to lose.

  ‘Yes, I’m quite pleased,’ I reply. ‘Wish they wanted my face though.’ I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘You’re very competitive aren’t you? Boundaries always changing. There was a time when you would have been thrilled to get anything from Dior.’

  As he leans across to top up my glass, my eyes begin to fill with tears. The news about Erica engulfs me once again. The heavy sense of guilt that I am so familiar with washes over me again. I didn’t look after Tamsin properly. I allowed another woman to take her. I am her mother. It is my fault. I shouldn’t have been late for the pickup. Now the woman who took my daughter is out of prison. I feel a panic attack coming on. I am breathing too quickly. Phillip has stopped sipping his champagne. He is staring at me, eyes riddled with concern.

  He puts his arm around me. ‘Are you thinking about Erica again?’

  ‘I’m always thinking about her, about what she did. I can’t push her from my brain.’

  I feel the intake of Phillip’s breath pull across my face. The sigh as he exhales. ‘Faye, you know the restraining order has been granted. Even if she wanted to, she can’t come anywhere near us.’

  He pulls me towards him and wraps me in his arms. I melt into his warmth. His muscular chest.

  ‘What if she breaches it?’

  ‘She won’t. She’d go back to prison.’

  My breathing speed increases. Pins and needles shoot up my arm.

  ‘And what about Jonah?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s no need to worry about Jonah. Leave it to me. I’ll take care of him.’

  160

  Jonah

  I have been feeling tired, so very tired lately. Going to bed at 10 p.m., hardly able to rouse myself when my alarm goes off. Dropping off to sleep at work, slouching over my designs. Is it because I am low, as you are pushing me away? Maybe I should go to the doctor and have a blood test. Faye, you are still in denial. I am trying to keep going by taking my pleasure elsewhere. Not that it is real pleasure. You are the woman I love. Sex with anyone else is a poor substitute.

  Last Tuesday, after my violence, Anna had to get me a new girl. And everything went wrong. The new girl was nothing like as good as Sally, and a shadow of you. She was lying naked on the bed, waiting for me. First I filled up on whisky. The Glenmorangie Phillip gave me. I tossed back the last fingerful from my glass and left it on the dressing table. I began to unzip my pants. She sat up on the bed and moved towards me to help me.

  ‘Stay down. Lie back,’ I barked.

  Even though I don’t really want anyone else to touch me, Faye, and I am saving myself for you, I usually get an erection at the thought of dominating someone new. But something wasn’t right. My erection wasn’t stirring. I looked down. My penis was like a pink caterpillar, curled up and sleeping. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. It only happens to people who are really old, or people on the wrong kind of antidepressants. Not to virile men like me. But then I have been sleeping so much lately. Perhaps I’m not well. Perhaps I am anaemic and need a blood test. Then I pinch myself. No.

  It must have been the girl’s fault – she was so unenthusiastic. Not attractive enough. If I had the energy I would travel into central London, go somewhere really upmarket. But instead I’ll just have a word with Anna, ask her to get someone more expensive, until the day I have you to myself.

  So, as things hadn’t worked out, I didn’t stay at Anna’s as long as usual. And when I got back home some fucking bastard had broken into my house.

  161

  Faye

  Another day, another photoshoot. I’ve done the legs and the nails. A hairdresser is blow-drying my hair, teasing it with a large curling brush, and blasting it with the hairdryer. I watch her in the mirror and try to relax. Relaxing is hard these days. I took two Valium on the way here, but they didn’t seem to help.

  So tense and out of sorts just when my career is beginning to take off. Be careful what you wish for, and I wished for this so much. I used to think that telling people I was a model would be everything to me, but everything is nothing if you’re worried about your family. I walk around cradling panic in my stomach.

  ‘All done,’ the hairdresser announces, holding up a mirror and reflecting it in the mirror in front of me, to show me the back of my head.

  ‘Very nice, thank you,’ I say, smiling at her like an automaton.

  ‘Off you go. Time for make-up,’ she instructs.

  Make-up. Never my favourite part of the modelling business. Still reeling after super excited Daisy and her reference to my crevices. The usual. Moisturiser, followed by layer after layer of pancake foundation. Eyelids scraped. Eyebrows tweaked. The make-up artist is the silent type today. At least she’s not intrusive. Intrusive does not suit my mood.

  I have no need to change clothes for this photoshoot. It is just head shots. Nothing too extravagant or complicated.

  Sandy arrives. ‘Bit less exciting than Dior and horse riding,’ he says.

  ‘I hope so,’ I reply. ‘I’m ready for a
rest.’

  Two hours of tossing my hair and smiling, of brushing my hair and tossing it again. Finally, I step out of the salon, still feeling uneasy as I begin to walk home. Stomach tightening as someone puts their hand on my arm. Turning around.

  Jonah.

  Eyes stabbing into me.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  His hand clasps my arm. ‘Wouldn’t hello Jonah be more civil?’

  ‘Do I have to be civil to a man I don’t want to know?’

  His mouth twists downwards. ‘I’m not sure your attitude is advisable, Faye.’

  His fingers are forming a tight band of pain around my arm.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  Fingers tightening. Pain increasing.

  ‘I need you to listen. I want to speak to you, Faye.’

  I shake my arm and try to prise his fingers away, but I cannot manage.

  ‘I’ve got a film of us together,’ he says in a stage whisper so that people passing can hear. ‘And I want to show it to you.’

  Blood is rushing to my cheeks. I know I am blushing. I stop struggling and stand, eyes trapped in his. ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘I set up a selfie to record us on my iPhone while we were making love. I can send it to Phillip if you like?’

  ‘I don’t believe you. You wouldn’t have been able to.’

  ‘How would you know? You were very drunk.’

  Still holding my arm so tightly it feels as if he is cutting off my circulation, he leads me into the tiny café we were standing outside. To a table at the back. It is a small, bare café, with wooden floorboards and six wooden tables. The waitress smiles at us. I do not manage to smile back. Late morning. No one else there.

  ‘What can I get you?’ she asks as we sit down.

  He is still holding my arm. ‘Nothing for me thanks.’

  ‘Whisky please. Make it a double.’

  She shakes her head. ‘We don’t have an alcohol licence.’